


Unglamourous

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fatherhood, Feelings, First Kiss, Flirting, Intense Eye Contact, M/M, No angst here, Parenthood, Parentlock, Taking Chances, You Have Been Warned, seriously y'all this is really stupid fluffy, the fluffiest of domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: John's heart is showing, and it leaps out and brushes Sherlock's face.





	Unglamourous

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta-ed. Sorry about any stupid mistakes or typos. Doh.

Unglamourous

 

Case closed, statements given, John walks half a step behind Sherlock through The Regent’s Park. The companionable silence between them is comfortable and welcome, and John takes a moment to savour what is left of this pretty-damn-near-perfect day. It’s midsummer, and a breeze carrying the scent of cut grass and blooming flowers is just enough to ruffle the fabric of Sherlock’s rolled up sleeves. The sunlight catches at the sparse hairs on his forearms, and John knows that if they stay out too much longer like this, Sherlock is likely to freckle. It won’t be dark for hours yet.

Sherlock stops suddenly at a kiosk, ordering a coffee for himself and a tea for John. He hands John his cup as he sidesteps to the attached shelf for add-ins. Sherlock slides the insulated carafe of milk over to John as he shakes out two packets of sugar and dumps them into his own cup.

“You’ll need caffeine for when you've retrieved Watson from daycare. It’s almost five.”  Sherlock’s eyes turn down as he focuses on fitting the lid on his cup.

It is, John realises. He turns his wrist to check his watch. He’s got to get Rosie from the daycare in forty minutes. As he places a lid on his own cup, John’s brain starts organising his evening: there’s a load of laundry in the washer at his house that needs hanging before it mildews and chicken that needs cooking before it goes off.

John blows through the opening in the lid of his paper cup before taking a sip. “Too right.”  He sips carefully, not wanting to burn his tongue. He can’t help but hum in satisfaction as he takes his first taste. “Thank you,” John says, raising his cup a little. He means for the tea of course, but he could just as easily mean for the case, for the run, for the _day_ , really. He doesn’t get to do this as often as he used to.

Sherlock begins walking once more, toward Baker Street, and John follows even though he really should be heading the other direction if he wants to be on time. He does hate being one of the last parents there. If it’s too close to half-five, the teachers will have the children and their belongings waiting in reception—not at the play park. It’s a terrible feeling.

At the pavement outside of 221b, Sherlock pauses and turns to him. He sips from his coffee, exhaling through his nostrils as he does. When he pulls the cup away, there is a drop of coffee clinging to Sherlock’s lower lip, threatening to fall, and John doesn’t know what possesses him, he really doesn’t, but he reaches forward, catching it with the side of his index finger. He mentally blames it on parenthood, on having done this for Rosie about a million times recently, on simple muscle memory.

 “Don’t want to ruin your shirt,” John says around the clearing of his throat, and Sherlock just blinks and blinks. John keeps talking (for the love of God, why?) “It’s one of my favourites.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock finally manages.

John can’t help but smile, so he does, letting the awkwardness pass a bit. “See you later, Sherlock,” and he shifts to go, rocking from one foot to the other, wishing to God that he didn’t have to. It was a good day.

“Give Watson a kiss from me.”  Sherlock’s lip curls at the corner. Something like fondness softens the lines at his eyes.

And, it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Do it yourself,” John says, and when he does, he steps forward, just a bit.

Sherlock blinks again but recovers more quickly this time. “Right,” he says. “Right, indeed.”  He leans forward with a jerky, tentative movement that he corrects almost instantly, standing tall and sure, just a bit too much in John’s personal space. It’s enough that John can feel Sherlock’s warmth ghost over his own skin before he pivots them by placing a light hand at the small of Sherlock’s back for barely a beat as he guides them back the way they came.

At the daycare, John arrives just in time to get Rosie from the play park, and once they make it to her classroom for her things, she hands Sherlock a piece of sugar paper with glued-on pasta. “Fantastic work, Watson,” he tells her with a professional nod. She lifts her chubby three-year-old arms for John to pick her up, so he does, shifting her to one side so he can loop the strap of her bag around his other arm. He struggles with it, not quite able to catch it before it falls to his elbow.

“Let me,” Sherlock says, taking it and fitting it over his own shoulder. He presses his lips together in a smile as he meets John’s eyes and then—he leans in, close. John’s heart pounds in his chest, and he can _smell_ Sherlock, and he can feel the fabric of his shirt meet the fabric of his own, and then his torso is against John’s as he presses in just _that_ much more closely. Sherlock blows a raspberry against Rosie’s cheek before kissing it, and she giggles blowing a very sloppy raspberry against Sherlock’s cheek in response. John exhales. Sherlock steps back, just a bit—but the warmth in his eyes is still there.

“Dinner?” John asks, shifting Rosie up a bit on his hip.

“Starving,” Sherlock replies.

“I’ve got some chicken in. You could come to mine. I’ve got to get this one fed and bathed before she turns into a pumpkin,” he says, poking Rosie in the belly as she squirms and laughs.

They take the bus for the fifteen minute journey to John’s neighbourhood. Sherlock teaches Rosie a game where she must memorise the colours of the shirts of the passengers sat behind them. She does well, and John finds that he is wholly engrossed, watching them together. Something in his heart warms even further. It’s been such a good day.

John presses the button for their stop, and on the short walk to the house, Rosie takes one of each of their hands. Without warning, she holds on tight, tugging before dropping like a weight, and both John and Sherlock catch her before she can fall to the pavement, pulling her safely upwards, and she swings out forward, giggling as her feet kick in the air. Sherlock understands the game immediately—she’s a good teacher, too. This time, John counts off: _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , and then they all work together, swinging her even more smoothly this time.

At the house, Sherlock hangs Rosie’s bag on its hook by the door, and John tells Rosie to play in her bedroom for a minute so he can get dinner on the hob. Sherlock rattles on about the website cases he’s considering taking up next. John interjects from time to time, and in this conversation, things feel so normal, so ten-years-ago _and_ so right-now, new and oddly charged. John wonders what the hell is _with_ today?  He knows, he _knows_ they have been doing this dance for a decade. Have they got on the same beat this time, then? He wants them to be. He _really_ wants them to be.

He puts some frozen peas in with the rice and puts a lid on the skillet with the chicken, and he feels Sherlock’s presence come up behind him. He’s standing close, and John wants to lean back, but he doesn’t.

“Is that your peas thing?” Sherlock asks, voice low in his ear. His chin is nearly resting on John’s shoulder, his cheek nearly brushing John’s cheek.

John’s breath catches, and he manages, “Yeah.”  He clears his throat, not daring to move too much. “Yeah, it’s one of Rosie’s favourites, too.”  Sherlock smells of a perfect summer afternoon—green like The Regent’s Park, sweet like coffee, and a little like sweat—warm, familiar, wonderful.  

Next to him, Sherlock inhales, just under his ear. “Smells good,” he says, and his breath warms John’s neck. Sherlock doesn’t move an inch, and John swears his voice goes even deeper. “I can’t wait.”

John’s knees nearly buckle, and he has to catch himself with a hand on the worktop. He lets out a shaky breath. “Won’t be long.”  Channeling a bravery he doesn’t quite feel, he turns where he stands, facing Sherlock, who does not step back. They are almost touching. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over his face, penetrating, and John feels dissected and reassembled, undone and _known_.

John breathes, lets the moment linger, lets himself enjoy it.  He feels his own lip curl, just a little. “Would you mind helping Rosie wash her hands?  I’ll lay the table.”

Sherlock nods slowly, face so close to John’s. “Good?” he asks, mouth serious, eyes still intense.

“Very good,” John replies, letting his own face reflect the gravity here. He is serious about this, too. Sherlock shifts closer first before stepping away, a silent promise, and then he’s gone, giving John a moment of breathing room.

Rosie plays with her peas as she eats them, and John gets her to actually eat her chicken by making Sherlock match her bite-for-bite, which Rosie thinks is hilarious. John leaves Sherlock in the lounge as he gets Rosie bathed, teeth cleaned, pajamas on—and when he and Rosie return, the dishwasher is whirring softly, and Sherlock is reading one of John’s medical journals on the sofa.

Rosie puts her favourite book on top of it and climbs up next to him, tugging John by the hand to sit, too. He does. She settles in with her backside on John’s lap, her head against his chest, and her feet curled next to Sherlock’s thigh. John puts on his usual voices as he reads, flicking his eyes to Sherlock from time to time (This is it. This is the whole story now for me. Are you okay with all of this?) and Rosie stops him a couple of times to ask unnecessary questions about the pictures in the book that they read every night. He answers her with patience. Sherlock’s arm settles around his shoulders, other hand lighting on Rosie’s ankle. When the book is done, Rosie kisses Sherlock goodnight, and John goes to tuck her in.

This time, when John returns to the lounge, Sherlock is not reading. He is standing by the fireplace, hands in his pockets. Though it’s getting late, the sunlight is still coming through the windows at an angle. His skin looks like summer, golden and perfect, and John cannot fathom life without him, cannot fathom that this life would in any way suit him, cannot fathom what comes next—he just doesn’t know.  He has everything to lose.

John lets out a breath through his mouth. “It’s all rather unglamourous around here, I’m afraid,” he says, laying it out. He steps forward anyway—hoping.

Sherlock moves toward him, humming pensively. He makes his way into John’s space, speaking in a low rumble. “Peas and adventure stories and tricks to finish eating the chicken? Not so different.” He is so close that John has to look up to hold his eyes. His entire body is buzzing.

“Sherlock,” John says, and he doesn’t know what comes next.

“John,” Sherlock says, and really—it’s just a breath. It’s just a breath that puffs against John’s cheeks, warming his neck under his collar. It’s just a breath that makes his palms sweat until he has to open and close his hand to stop it shaking. It’s just a breath, but maybe—maybe it’s _all_ of the breaths—maybe it is the very thing filling his lungs, keeping his wasted heart beating, his aging muscles moving—and maybe this is everything—everything it has always been and everything it might become. John forces his eyes to stay open, to stay fixed.

John reaches out again, index finger curved against Sherlock’s lower lip just as it was earlier today, but this time, he does not move it away. He does not move away.

He feels the kiss, feather light against his knuckle, and he can’t help but close his eyes, exhale. The next press of Sherlock’s lips is against his own, and he realises now that they are becoming, finally, what they always, _always_ were.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Got an idea for a ficlet you'd like to see me write? Feel free to prompt me here or over on my tumblr, and I will do my best to oblige.


End file.
